


Like Honey

by thenbh



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, i need to stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:09:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenbh/pseuds/thenbh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam does a lot of homework and Zayn is kind of misunderstood, but not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Honey

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of some tags. I have mixed feelings about the Oxford Comma, whatever. I'm sorry.

It’s one in the morning, and Liam is buzzing. His hands are shaking viciously, and he has to stab them with a pen to stop them. They continue to wobble and he can only concur that this has to do with the four cups of coffee he had prior to sitting down. There’s an important paper due tomorrow. It’s being counted as 50% of his grade. Liam doesn’t think he can fucking deal with that. He’s supposed to proof read, but his fingers are flying across the keyboard, and his eyes are burning a bright red. There is no way he’s going to go back through a ten page paper to check if he’s missing a _comma_.

There’s a buzzing next to him. He swats the noise away because it’s just a fly trying to disrupt his studies. The buzzing goes off again and Liam thinks he’s going to burst into tears. That stupid fly won’t stop buzzing, and it’s being a nuisance, and Liam’s head hurts. One more buzz and he is ready to kill this fucking asshole. He cranes his neck both ways, gets lightheaded in the process, and searches for the fly. The fly’s screen lights up and, oh. It’s just his phone, everybody, no need to be alarmed.

Niall’s name flashes across the screen of the black iPhone. Liam swipes at the arrow, “hello?”, and wishes Niall isn’t drunk. He is. There’s an annoying laughter that comes from the other line. It’s Thursday night, who throws a party on a Thursday night, and who decides to get smashed on one? Niall laughs again, no, giggles. It’s Niall’s drunk laugh/giggle/whatever – you know, the one reserved especially for nights when he gets pissed. And now that Liam thinks about it, that laugh/giggle/whatever rings every night.

There’s a shuffling that comes from Niall’s end and Liam can only guess he’s moving into another room. “Heeeeeeyyyy, mate! ‘s Niall, your very beeeest friend!” the boy giggles obnoxiously. "Come’n pick me up,” Niall slurs every word and pops every pop-able word ending, “ ‘m at this party on, umm, I don’t know, it’s near the art building on campus. Could be wrong, but yeah. Come find me, I love you, Liam!” The line goes dead, and Liam wishes he were that line. Wishes he were buried six feet under, already safe from the suffocating feeling.

He bundles up in the warmest sweatshirt he can find, his green one that’s, like, three-years-old, and an black pea coat. Both smells like Niall and fabric softener and a slight hint of beer. That might be because Niall had done the laundry while drunk last week, so. Pieces of lint hang off of the seams, but he can’t be bothered to care. He still has this paper to write, but first he has a Niall to get home safe.

The outside world is unforgivingly cold, but Liam figures it only makes sense. It’s the middle of November and being in New York City, and all, it shouldn’t surprise him. He smells rotten food and steps on a dead rat on his way out of his apartment. But, it’s okay because he’s used to the stench and rodents filtering around all over the place. His apartment is right in the middle of China Town, being pushed over by his university’s housing offices and a snobby secretary who told him he was a big boy, now and that he’d have to take it.

So he did.

He can see the flickering street light ahead of him, that one that won’t just die because it’s stubborn. Liam thinks he could be a street light. Thinks he could just sit there, overlooking the city with a bad case of insomnia, and scaring the shit out of it by wavering on and off at random times. He hails a passing cab that only stops because he whistles loudly. He spends the ride thinking.

 Liam’s floated off into his own world filled with street lights and lamp posts and Niall being a broken traffic light when the cab stops abruptly. The man tells him that they’ve arrived at his destination and to get out _please, this is my last shift._ So, Liam pays the fare and gets out of the cab.

It’s 1:24 a.m., it’s cold outside, and there isn’t a soul in sight. But, then, Liam spots someone. A boy, actually. He’s walking out of a building, Liam realizes it’s the main art building, and he’s holding things that look like canvases. He can’t make much out because there’s a tarp covering them, like the boy wants them to himself. Liam assumes it’s his artwork and that the boy has just finished up – that he’d stayed there all until his task was over. This boy walks further into the street and lights a cigarette. It’s when a car horn sounds that Liam realizes he’s been staring for longer than necessary.

Right.

 Liam doesn’t even know where he’s going, let alone where the hell Niall has ended up. There’s a noise coming from next to the art building, a muffled roar of a bass. That helps. Liam makes his way towards the building, it’s worth a shot. He crosses the street, past the boy, smiles – keeps his cool, and walks in through a sketchy, back door; he has other things to worry about right now, thanks. Walking into the party reminds him of his Freshman year, last year, when he could afford to be reckless and careless – like Niall stayed. Liam doesn’t like to think about those times, so he doesn’t.

Liam ventures farther into the crowd of unruly young adults and spots Niall right away. Because, Niall is the life of the party and of course everyone would want to be around the flashing disco ball. His face is a really, really flushed red and he’s telling some story about his red cup. His hands fly everywhere, _for emphasis_ , he says. People are laughing with him, or at him, whatever. The sight is quite blinding, Niall is quite blinding. But, Niall had called him and asked him to pick him up, and here he is. Liam raises his arms and makes a waving motion with them. Bloody Niall, they’re telepathic, why won’t he pay attention to Liam’s flailing arms.

He walks closer, now a part of the group. Someone places a cup in his hand, but he discards it, like, two seconds later. He gives a tug to Niall’s white tank top, hoping to get his attention. He doesn’t. It takes five tugs and a fist to his gut to get Niall to focus his attention on Liam. When he does see his friend, though, Niall lights up like a Christmas tree, Liam swears on his life, a fucking Christmas tree with flashing lights and everything. He mumbles something like an apology – probably “sorry,” but Liam doesn’t catch it over the music and Niall’s drunken state –  and jumps off of the couch he’d been standing on.

“Hey, mate!” Niall isn’t coherent at all, but living with this bullshit for two years, Liam can understand. He takes Niall across the waist and pulls him out from the group, out from the club, and into the streets. It’s still cold outside, if not colder. Liam really hates the weather, but it’s nothing compared to back home so he can’t actually complain.

The boy is still standing on the corner. He’s holding his phone to his ear, Liam can hear him mumbling profanities from where he and Niall are standing.  He hears about people called Louis and Harry and “ _why aren’t you here, yet? Are you guys fucking? Oh my god.”_ Liam feels bad for the guy, stranded out in the cold, neglected by his own friends. Then again, he doesn’t really care because for all he knows, the guy is a serial killer who looks for his victims on street corners. He still has that damn paper to write and Niall won’t stop biting his shoulder.He shoves Niall off of him, hails another cab, pushes the moron into it, and sighs because this is his life.

Two seconds into the cab ride, the driver hits the break. It sends Niall lurching forward and into a fit of giggles. Liam’s pretty sure he’s broken his neck, but. The door opens to the raven-haired boy, who slides in next to Liam. He’s shivering, teeth clattering absentmindedly. He brings a gust of wind into the taxi, along with the smell of honey and desperation. He stutters a “hello,” and an address. It’s to the building across from Liam’s old apartment, the one that only the rich sons-of-bitches can afford, and Liam laughs.

“What’s so funny, then?” Liam’s head snaps up so quickly that he can practically hear his neck snapping. The boy is sitting there, peering into his soul. Inside of his mind, Liam yells and he groans inwardly because no, nothing is funny, he swears, don’t look at him that way, please. The cab moves again, Niall is happily staring out the window, and Liam stares at his hands in his lap and oh, is that pen mark on his pinky? He’s suffocating under a chocolate brown gaze. He opens his mouth to speak, and he does because he doesn’t want to seem like an idiot.

“N-nothing. I’m – I used to live right across from you, is all.” Liam doesn’t like feeling small, or intimidated, or like he’s being examined. This boy makes him feel that way and it’s only been, what, three seconds since their first encounter? Liam feels smaller in this cab than he has ever felt in New York City. Being a foreign nobody in this huge fucking city, you tend to feel like an ant that’s just been stepped on by a five-year-old picking his nose. But no, he’s feeling pretty minuscule right here.

Up close, the guy has a skinny face and looks that can only be crafted by the gods. With brown – almost black – hair that sits atop his head in a quiff and golden skin, he’s breathtaking. He smells more and more like honey as the seconds pass, his flannel shirt moving up and down with the rise and fall of his chest. Liam shouldn’t be so drawn to him, well, he should be because he’s _hot_ , but no.

The boy has this look in his hazy eyes, like there are secrets hiding behind them. And fuck, Liam really wants to know what those secrets tell, what bleary-eyes is harboring behind the layer of pleated skin and blood vessels. Liam has never been so intrigued by anyone in his life, ever. The boy blinks once, twice. Liam holds his breath. Why? He doesn’t know and probably won’t let his mind think enough to find out.

“Oh. Yeah, ‘s a nice neighborhood,” he says. Okay, yeah, it was a nice neighborhood. He remembers when there used to be block parties every weekend, from Friday until Sunday night. And then, in the mornings, you’d see people walking around like zombies, regret etched across their every feature. Liam wonders why he never saw this kid around, why they never crossed paths before. Maybe it was fate not wanting them to meet yet, or maybe it was just because Liam was shit-faced by 5 p.m. every day of the three.

He wants to say something else, to initiate another conversation. This _boy_ is so pretty and the couple of words he’s said have been laced with a sweet disposition that Liam wants to lick out of his mouth. Instead of shooting forward to attach his mouth to Quiffy’s, he nods curtly and turns back to trace the pen marks on his hand. There are lines and scribbles and many (probably one too many) white-out stains declaring their territory on his flesh.

 He thinks it’s funny that he’s supposed to know the back of his hand so well. Like, there’s that saying about knowing something like the back of your hand. But, Liam won’t ever know anything, or anyone, like the back of his hand because he doesn’t even _know_ the back of his hand and maybe he should because every cliché type of person does and time is running out and he’s already 20 years old, for God’s sake.

 The cab stops and he realizes that there are three pairs of eyes burning holes into his face. Blue ones, brown ones, black ones, and a hand outstretched in front of him; although Niall’s eyes aren’t burning, they’re more, like, gazing. Either way, Liam groans, takes money out of his wallet, hands it to the driver, and doesn’t wait for the change. He whispers a goodbye, maybe Niall is the one who says it, but what-the-fuck-ever. He hops out of the yellow taxi with Niall following, flush to his back.

The taxi drives off with a handsome lad inside of it and Liam’s crushed dreams. Liam shakes his  head furiously because he doesn’t even know his _name_. God, what was his name? No, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that fucking paper due tomorrow and Niall nagging him to hurry the fuck up. Liam thinks Niall is a twat for getting so pissed he can’t walk up the stairs. Liam knows the drill, he practically made it up. Take Niall up the stairs of hell fireman style, tuck him into bed with a glass of water and a kiss to his temple, and finish his own homework before he passes out.

He’s followed through with every step of the drill. He’s done with the paper, he’s done with Niall upchucking his intestines, and now he just needs to sleep. All Liam needs to do is hop into bed and fall into a deep slumber. Sleep comes easily when you’re fucking knackered, Liam figures. Now, he’s lying in bed, completely still and breathing easily. But. He can’t sleep. His eyes are closed, they’re too heavy to open, but he can’t get his mind to stop thinking. It’s running a mile a minute, his legs are cramping now, a lump of _boyboyboy_ attached to his cerebrum. It hurts to think but it hurts not to and this is all so fucked up. He prays to whatever fucking god is listening that he’ll just die.

 Liam falls asleep to chocolate brown eyes and extra sun-kissed skin.

 ~~~~~~ 

Marimba blares loudly from Liam’s iPhone speaker at exactly 11:55 a.m. It’s the alarm titled, “Please get up, your paper is due in five minutes!!!!!!!” Liam sets it to challenge himself. It’s a ritual that originated Freshman year because he’s kind of a masochist and an asshole. Niall groans into his pillow, choking on the fabric, Liam laughs but it comes out dry. His eyes are crusty and heavy. That paper won’t submit itself, he knows from past experience. One time, a very hung-over Liam tried his skill at magic, using his dick as a wand and chanting, “submit, submit, submit,” over and over, hoping it would happen. It didn’t and he failed his Introductory Economics class.

He flops out of his bed, literally, and falls into a pile of dirty clothes. His brain decides that yes, this is very comfortable and sleep here, Liam, do it. But, his body betrays him and he’s making a beeline to his desk and opening his laptop before his mind catches up. It’s 11:57 and he knows that his professor is a sadist that gets off to crying young adults. The drop box opens at 11:30 and closes at 11:59 and not 12 sharp, again because his professor is a bitch, and he has two minutes to find the file he saved as “iuyerhuj” or maybe it was “hgiumfk” but he doesn’t remember and time is ticking.

 Fucking hell, he’s clicking buttons and choking on his spit because the clock hits 58 minutes past 11. He finds the file, that was not saved as “iuyerhuj” or “hgiumfk” but it was actually just called “Modern Economics.” He submits it with 2 seconds left to spare. He’s breathing heavily when he gets his confirmation e-mail sent to his phone. Niall is snoring again, tucked into a lump between seven pillows and his duvet.

Liam wishes he were carefree like that. He’s not, unfortunately. He’s stuck in between not giving a shit and caring too much. It’s a curse and nothing like a blessing. He picks out a chunk of bacon from his hair and wonders how the hell that got there. It probably came from Niall’s barf. The thought makes Liam cringe, like proper nose scrunching and eyes closing in disgust. He figures he could go for a shower. It’s Friday and he hasn’t got any classes on Fridays, Fridays are his favorite.

Then his mind does that thing where it works and he sees hazy eyes and a yellow cab. The boy from last night is swarming around his mind. He’s swimming around, like a little guppy, begging for Liam’s attention. He keeps asking what’s so funny, Liam isn’t even laughing. The boy leans in just then, all puckered lips and lidded eyes. Liam smacks himself with his towel and sets off into the bathroom because he cannot be bothered with this.

 He showers for an hour in hot water, then lukewarm water, then cold water, and then air dries while eating a ham sandwich.

 ~~~~~~

Liam doesn’t see the boy until the next Thursday.

 ~~~~~~

He’s at the dining hall eating a rotten banana with Niall tuning his guitar besides him. It’s raining outside. Cars speed by, sloshing water all over the sidewalk and right into people, potentially ruining their lives. He has yet to finish his History of New York City homework that he was assigned Tuesday, prior to having his brain conquered by a boy. It’s a simple essay, MLA format and all. But he doesn’t even remember what he learned that class because everything that was his mind is now quiff and tanned skin.

Liam’s got an hour and a half left before his 10:30 class starts. It’s a fair amount of time to get this over with. But, he isn’t focused enough to do anything. He hates that, having no control over what he feels for a bloody _boy._ A nameless face riding around inside of a numberless taxicab in the Big City, just another pretty surface that will most likely not have  a place in Liam’s life. It’s pathetic and he’s disgusted by himself, truly.

A loud crash comes from inside the bar, where the non-paid student workers fuck around, and it startles most of the people inside of the dining hall. A small boy is standing there, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. He lets out a strangled noise, almost like a whine that sounds deep in his throat. Liam thinks he looks well-fucked, really well-fucked, like, full on ‘I just got sucked off behind this very bar’ fucked. Another boy in an apron and flour in his curly hair appears from behind his friend. Liam wants to hand himself a gold medal because he was correct, but really, when is he ever wrong?

Most of the students roll their eyes, like this is a natural occurrence. Like boys just suck each other off behind the food buffet every day. Liam hardly visits the dining hall, so he wouldn’t know. Niall is still tuning his guitar, cursing when the tuner unhooks from the head of the guitar and falls onto the floor with a clink. The thing is, Niall is really fucking talented. He plays guitar, and sings, and dances like he’s fresh out of a Missy Elliot music video. Liam wishes he were talented like that, but no, the only thing he can do is buy pretzels and do homework. And thanks to Taxi Boy, he can’t even do homework anymore. Imagine that, a pretzel buyer as a profession.

Liam’s chin is resting on his chin and he has his thinking face on. He’s thinking of what to do. He thinks, thinks , thinks. The door opens then and Liam wants to _cry_. The boy steps in and Liam stops breathing. He’s even more stunning in broad daylight. He’s paler, though, but cheekbones still as full. He’s holding those canvases, again. The tarps are more paint-splattered today and his white t-shirt is equally as splashed. Nobody pays attention to him, they’re broke college students, so they can’t afford it. Liam can’t either, but he stares. He watches as the boy walks around the benches and into a stool that’s in the way. Liam should laugh because it was funny, like, he just fucking walked into a non-moving object, but he can’t bring himself to do it. His eyes have gone blurry, now, from staring so intently. He can feel them watering, burning, itching. He’s frozen, is the thing. Liam can’t get them to focus, even with  Niall snapping his fingers in front of him. It takes ten snaps and Liam is back, thanks Niall, he really is, stop snapping.

“What’re you doing, mate? Y’alright?” Niall is doing that thing with his eyes, he’s staring quizzically. There isn’t a challenge in them, though, more like deep concern.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, dude, I’m fine.” Except he isn’t. There’s a pretty boy sitting on a stool and he’s talking to blow job giver and receiver and he wants to know everything about him. He’s staring again, trying to be subtle, but Liam has always been everything but discreet.

Niall rolls his eyes, the softness in them disappearing faster than his every hangover. “Mate, you’re salivating? Who’re you even looking at?” Niall shoves Liam over, so that his head is where Liam’s was previously. Niall must see the boy, too, because he smirks knowingly. Liam thinks Niall knows too much. “Zayn Malik, eh?”

Zayn Malik, that’s it. Liam says the name in his mind, once, twice, twenty times. He decides he likes the way it sounds and that he is in love. Liam changes his surname from Payne to Malik and calls it a done deal. But, Niall isn’t finished talking, Niall is never finished talking. He’s like some kind of talking machine that won’t shut up, even when drowned in water. Trust him, Liam has tried.

“His dad, like, gives so much money to the school. I swear he shits money, or like, has a special money tree in his backyard. I heard he’s an asshole, though. Won’t talk to anyone other than those fuckers who work here, Harry and Louis, I think. Kind of rude if you ask me.” Niall shrugs and takes a piece from Liam’s forgotten banana. Liam scoffs, then, because there goes his dream. He mentally calls whoever is in charge of his legal documents and changes his surname back to Payne.

He sighs after scoffing and chokes on his banana slice. The boy – Zayn, he corrects, is an asshole with a loaded wallet. And Liam is a different kind of asshole with a hole in his wallet and an unwritten essay. Zayn is chatting away with Louis and Harry in whispered hushes. Liam smells honey, and he swears it didn’t smell that way before. It’s Zayn, Liam reasons. Zayn smells like honey, Zayn walks, talks, moves, like honey. Liam likes honey on his pancakes, and his oatmeal, and his tea, and his dick.

Liam shakes his head vigorously, breaking his neck for the second time in a week. “But, like, he’s into art, right?” Liam knows the answer, judging by the chips of paint in Zayn’s hair, he is.

Niall nods, tongue coming out to lick at the banana residue on his lip. “He’s really good at it, I’ve heard. He draws for the knock-off school newspaper, the dirty one with the comics and stuff.” Liam tries –  he really does, shut up – hard to not swoon. Liam loves comics, he’s got tons of them in this red box under his bed. Niall hates comics, which is probably why he’s rolling his eyes, again. Either that, or he has a serious tick. Liam wants him to get his eyes checked, just in case and all that. He tells Niall that and gets a face full of banana.

It’s 10:20 and he’s going to be late to class, but. Zayn is looking really hot in that t-shirt and Liam is going to have a mental breakdown. He figures he can find Zayn again sometime, right? Like, he shouldn’t be that hard to find. Okay, yeah. He kisses Niall, wet and sloppy on the cheek, because he owes him that much. Liam takes his laptop, an unfinished essay opened on the screen, and a bag of crisps from Niall’s bag.

He sits in his uncomfortable chair during the lecture and wonders if his natural scent of cinnamon would mesh well with that of honey.

Liam gets a zero on the essay and only one thing down in his notebook, the date.

~~~~~~

Liam sees Zayn at the dining hall again that night, except he’s alone this time. Well, as alone as he’ll get. Harry and Louis are there, making out like their life depends on it. Liam thinks it’s gross, but disgustingly endearing. Zayn is looking around, jaded. He sighs, pushes off of the wall he is leaning against, and walks up to the buffet, directly in front of Liam. Liam’s hand freezes on the tongs he’s holding out in front of the nacho crisps.

Zayn takes the tongs out of Liam’s hand and Liam feels the flesh there burn. “Well, if you’re done with those, then,” Zayn says teasingly. He takes some crisps into his plate and then sloshes cheese onto them, tasting one and raising his eyebrows in Liam’s direction. “You eat your nacho crisps without the actual nacho cheese?” No, he doesn’t, Zayn, don’t be daft.

Zayn smiles. “Wasn’t being daft, just wondering.” Liam chokes on his saliva. He said that aloud, what a fucking idiot. He laughs nervously and wonders if Zayn thinks he’s weird for knowing his name, and if he can hear his thoughts.

“I.” Liam doesn’t even know what to say. No? I don’t? I fucking love nacho cheese? “I don’t fucking love nacho cheese, nngh.” Liam is in pain. Liam is in a deep pain. That didn’t make any sense, he’s contradicted his own thoughts and Zayn thinks he’s stupid, that’s just great. “I mean, I love it, really great, see?” Liam then proceeds to scooping a gigantic spoonful of cheese out of its container and into his plate. He smiles warily.

“I’m glad, Liam.” Zayn winks and walks away with his nachos. Liam gulps around a mouthful of cheese. Half because of peristalsis and half because Zayn knows his name. Zayn Malik, King of Everything Land, knows his name. Liam smiles, saliva dripping down his chin. He hides the drool, and inevitable smile, behind his hand. It’s a great day to be Liam Payne, even if that Liam Payne is senseless and bashfully blushing in spite of himself.

 ~~~~~~

Liam makes a habit out of stalking Zayn after that. Okay, it’s not stalking, it’s – it’s just a one-sided hide and seek game. It’s Thursday, again – it’s always Thursday, though, isn’t it? – and Liam is sitting on the steps to the library, reading the knock-off comic book the art students offer. More importantly, tracing Zayn’s comics with his index finger. He connects with the comics on a spiritual level. In this one, the main character is wanking in the school bathroom while thinking about some girl with purple hair. Liam learns that Zayn draws a really good penis and wonders if Zayn would draw his. He’d swear it was for his boyfriend (that doesn’t exist, okay).

He looks up when he smells honey. Liam has a really terrible sense of smell, but honey is everywhere. It’s Zayn, of course it’s Zayn, and a girl in purple hair. Which, thinking about it, is the same one from the comic. They walk by Liam in uniform step and go all the way down the field to sit behind the old sycamore that is planted to the far right of the library. Liam can see them from his peripheral vision, they’re laughing and touching and Liam hates them. No, he really does.

He’s done his research and he knows that that’s Perrie, Zayn’s best friend or girlfriend, nobody really knows. Together, they’re like this anti-human force field. Nobody goes near them because if they did, they’d be shunned into another dimension. That’s what people think, they haven’t actually tried it. Liam hates Perrie more because she’s really pretty, she gets to talk to Zayn, and she has a the reproductive organ Zayn is interested in. He sighs deeply, like he’s inhaling some fumes that will turn him into a Perrie. He is not a Perrie, just a Liam who is blocking the front entrance to the main library with his body.

Liam gets his satchel – it’s a satchel, Niall, not a bag – and his textbook from the railing. Zayn is still laughing with Perrie and they’re looking at their iPhones when he passes by them. His flat isn’t this way, his flat is to the right of the library. He just wants an excuse to smell honey, sue him. Liam sighs for the millionth time since his discovery of Zayn’s existence, his lungs are heavy in his chest.

It’s just, Zayn is so damn fascinating. Got all of these tattoos covering his arms, telling stories that words could never. And those eyes are the ones selling them, ushering you to your seat, offering you warmth and a home. Shit, Liam doesn’t want to, he doesn’t. Excluding that voice in his mind, the one that whispers Zayn, Zayn, Zayn, Liam doesn’t want to. He can’t, is the thing. Zayn is too up there, he’s too exclusive and elite. Liam could never. So he won’t.

 

 ~~~~~~

Liam gets to his flat at 9 p.m., after a run through Central Park that tore his legs apart. Niall is sitting on the couch, the one they got their first year. He’s eating two-day-old pasta, it looks raw, but greasy, and frankly delicious. Liam shoves his hand into the Tupperware the second his feet land on the coffee table, also from their first year. He shouldn’t be eating with his hands, his parents didn’t raise him in the jungle, thanks, but he’s tired and hungry, so.

“You look like shit,” is the only sentence that Niall speaks for ten minutes. Liam groans in agreement, he feels it, so he guesses he must look it. “Let’s go out,” is what Niall declares secondly. He doesn’t say it like a question, nothing he ever says is. He takes the container out of Liam’s hands and throws it in the trash. Liam would argue that _you can’t just throw out a useful food-holder-thing, for God’s sake, Niall_. But, he’s tired and whatever.

He showers, wears his best clothes – just in case he wants to pull tonight – even though he won’t pull. Niall does too, and trust Liam, he will pull. They leave the apartment at 9:30. It’s cold, it’s always cold, Liam’s fingers are going to detach themselves from his palms and migrate south. He wouldn’t blame them, to be honest. He can see his breath fleeing his mouth and nose with every puff of carbon dioxide, and water vapor, and anxiety he releases.

They get to Niall’s favorite pub at 10 sharp, Liam knows this because he’s measuring everything in numbers: his steps, his breath, and his heartbeat. The bar is foggy, occupied with uni students and random nightwalkers. Niall picks a booth in the back, in the corner. “So that we’ll get a view of it all!” Niall says and Liam agrees. They order their first round, downing the pint in less than five minutes. Liam gets drunk easily, he’s learned. He’s buzzed by the time he chugs his second pint. Niall pats him on the back when he orders their third thingy, Niall has had more to drink than Liam has and he can’t form a coherent sentence. He smiles lazily and budges over and out of the booth, joining a brunette in her booth. Typical Niall.

Liam is left sitting alone, slowly taking swigs of his tall glass. He’s scoping out the premises, looking for something to waste his time on. He’s bored, so he moves his station from the shady booth in the back, to the stool on the bar. Liam orders another drink, too. He forgot the other one at the booth because he’s stupid and forgetful, obviously.

He looks around and doesn’t see anything interesting, he never does. His hands are interesting, though. He still hasn’t gotten to know the back of his hand. The pen marks from weeks before have been replaced by clean flesh and crackly patterns. Liam sees veins, blue and purple, running through his hand. He touches his skin, then, moving it around for good measure. It’s pliable under his own hands, pinch-able and smooth. He’s observing his fine layer of epidermis so closely that his eyes go blurry. He can smell his skin, it smells like cinnamon and soap, and. Honey, that’s definitely honey he is sniffing.

It turns out it’s not his skin, it’s just Zayn. Fucking Zayn and his persistent smell of honey. He’s sitting two stools away from Liam with a sketchbook and some black crayon-looking things. His shot glass is untouched, sitting there, half empty (or full, whatever). Zayn takes the crayon, Liam realizes it’s charcoal, and starts to draw. He blends the black into the background with his thumb, creating a gradient effect. Liam watches, entranced because holy shit, he’s good. He draws with finesse, a calmness so amazing, that it pushes Liam into Zayn’s unknowing love.

Liam should say hello, say something. He stays frozen in his seat, instead, watching the boy. Last time he tried talking to Zayn, he’d sounded like an idiot with a nacho cheese addiction and a speech deficiency. But, he’s a little drunk and his judgment is clouded by Zayn’s skill. So, he downs his glass in one go. Liam stands up, tripping over his own feet. He sits next to Zayn, not saying anything just yet. Zayn looks up at him, eyes half lidded. His tongue comes out to lick at the corner of his mouth. “Liam,” he breathes, a little exasperated.

“You know my name,” is what Liam says. He could have gone with something more intelligent, perhaps conversational, but he really wants to know how the fuck Zayn got his name.

“Yeah, I kind of – I asked – uh, Niall, really.” Son-of-a-bitch, of course. Niall with his knowing glances and insistent attitude lately.

“Oh.” And that’s the end of the conversation, really. Liam just sits there, drinking from his 6th round. Zayn draws, occasionally staring up at Liam, eyes glowing in the dim light of the pub. Zayn laughs when Liam hiccups around his drink. Liam’s telling a story about his dog, Loki, from back home to nobody in particular. Maybe he’s talking to the pretty bartender with the orange hair, he seems intent of listening. Zayn is listening too, but Liam doesn’t notice. If he were looking closely enough, though, he’d see Zayn biting back a smile and a laugh when Liam mentions the time Loki, the motherfucker, bit his ass and left it sore for weeks.

Liam leaves the bar when the bell for last call sounds, Niall having left a while ago. He gives a drunken wave in the direction of the actual bar and Zayn in particular. He whispers a goodbye and makes his way home. Not really home, just his shitty apartment in China Town and his shelter from the cold.

 

He sleeps with a smile on his face and Zayn’s laugh echoing in his ears.

 ~~~~~~ 

Liam is at the library, again. He’s inside this time. The head librarian had yelled at him the day before, claiming that he couldn’t sit on the steps. Liam flipped her off in his mind.

The air is musky, filled with the evaporated tears of refuge students and the drool from their naps. Liam is cramming for his test on Microeconomics. He’s pulling his hair out after every sentence he reads. Nothing is sinking in, his head hurts, and he doesn’t fucking care about millions of tiny economics. That was Liam making a funny while the world is taking a shit on his life, laugh. He feels about ready to pass out, now, since he hasn’t eaten since yesterday. He’s going to throw up, he swears.

The girl at the table next to him is peeling open an orange and Liam wants some. He won’t ask her, even though he’s pretty sure he fucked her once. That’s another reason why she wouldn’t give him any food, though, because he left before she could wake up. Liam cringes because Freshman year. He tastes honey in the air. Not the honey people put in their tea, or pancakes, or anything edible. It smells like Zayn Honey. Turns out, it is Zayn Honey, as Zayn just sat down in front of Liam on the table.

“Hey,” he speaks, slow like that honey he ever so pleasantly exudes. “You studying for something?” Liam only nods, gently because his head is going to explode if he puts force into it.

“Microeconomics, it’s shit.” Zayn groans, something like an agreement. He must sense Liam’s vagueness and tight movements because he places a hand on Liam’s arm over the table. He gives him a tender smile, like a question that doesn’t need answering. When Liam tenses more, Zayn pulls out of his chair, into the one next to Liam, and takes the boy in by his arm, tucking him into his side. Liam sighs into the embrace, Zayn smells sweeter like this, up close and personal, and fuck. Liam relaxes into it too much. When Zayn pulls away, he’s smiling, but Liam misses the warmth that is Zayn.

Zayn steps away and sits back in his seat across from Liam. Liam gets back to studying, memorizing what words mean and how things work in Microeconomics. He’s in his world of study, the universe in which he so easily gets lost in, in under five minutes. He doesn’t look away from his book, only learning the subtext that is this lesson. If he had looked up, though, he would have met golden brown eyes and a fond smile.

 ~~~~~~ 

Liam and Zayn meet in the library every day for a week. Zayn draws Liam’s textbooks while Liam studies into oblivion. Liam learns that Perrie is Zayn’s best friend, the one who listens to all of his rants and problems. He asks about Louis and Harry, Zayn tells him he doesn’t know much about them, just that they keep him company by being _there_. Zayn learns about Liam’s sisters, and the time he wanted to be a fireman, and how he rescued a cat from a tree by climbing it like Spiderman. Zayn laughs at that, pats him on the shoulder, and tells him it’s never too late. Liam throws his notebook and lets him know that it kind of is.

 Liam is happier in that one week than he has ever been.      

 ~~~~~~ 

“Where the fuck are you going, then?” Niall is giving Liam an amused, yet aware, look from his spot on the couch. He’s stark naked, eating from a takeaway container.

Liam scoffs, as if Niall doesn’t know. “The library, mate, it’s a universal hotspot for lonely teenagers.” Liam waggles his eyebrows at his friend, who is giving him a disgusted look.  Niall bugs him to tell Zayn he says hello, Liam throws a shoe at him, hitting him straight on his dick. He feels sorry for 10 seconds, before he remembers Niall is the epitome of evil.

The walk to the library is eventful. He gets hit in the face by a flying soccer ball and a free dumpling as an apology. Liam takes it happily, gagging around the delicacy when it’s shoved in his mouth by a kind lady in an apron. He would make a rude comment about it, if it weren’t for the generous smile on her face and the crinkles in her eyes. He refrains from it, mouthing a thank you, instead.

He walks to the library quickly, his feet moving faster than his mind. Tonight, he plans on doing _something_. Zayn’s been around a lot, lately. He’s overtaken Liam’s life completely, making him feel alive. Liam wants to know Zayn like the back of his hand, wants to know all about him yet nothing at all. Liam wants to smell honey all of the time, and to breathe it, and to have it surround him. Liam just wants a Zayn in his bed in the morning. Actually, Liam wants a Zayn Malik to call his own.

Liam makes it to the library out of breath. He’s breathing heavily on the steps, doubled over from walking so fast. While looking down, he sees a slip of paper. Liam is a nosy, intrusive person. He picks up the note, it says, ‘If your name is Liam Payne, meet me at the sycamore.’ It’s signed by Zayn in a perfect manuscript.

Liam does as he’s told, smiling his way to the old tree. Liam hates trees, they’re old and rough and smell like moss. He makes it to the sycamore tree, nonetheless. A hand comes out to grab his arm. He’s pressed flush to Zayn, chest to chest, and forehead to forehead.

“Hi.” Zayn’s voice is barely a whisper, more of a breath. Liam’s every sense is turned honey, languid and syrupy. He breathes in a sweet desperation, a nicotine blow, and mint. Liam smiles, staring up into Zayn’s hazy eyes, the same ones from the taxi. Zayn is shorter than Liam, but he’s standing on a tree root, it gives him a height advantage. Liam feels small, now. He’s being watched, inspected by soft eyes.

Suddenly, Liam feels safe, at home. It’s silly to think, daft to believe that Zayn, this stranger feels so comfortable. He’s staring at Liam like he’s the sun, the moon, and everything in between, still. It’s a bit scrutinizing, though. He wants Zayn to stop looking at him like that. “Stop looking at me like that.” Liam closes his eyes, breathes in sweetness.

“Like what?” Zayn quizzes, Liam can feel his head cocking to the side.

“Like you’re bigger than me, like you’re studying me, like,” Liam doesn’t finish because lips enclose around his. They suck on his bottom lip, nipping gently. Zayn is sluggish with his kisses, unhurried and carefree. He grazes Liam’s lips with his own like…like honey. Like he doesn’t have anywhere to be but right here. Zayn is the breeze on a rainy day, Zayn is absolutely magnificent, Zayn is the smell of charcoal and paint chips in his quiff, Zayn is the home Liam didn’t even know he was looking for.

Liam pulls away because he can’t breathe. “Like you want to kiss me.” Zayn giggles – he fucking giggles – and kisses Liam again, close-mouthed. Zayn tells Liam that all he’s ever wanted to do is kiss him, that he really likes the way he gets lost in his books, and the way he loves fucking nacho cheese, and how he cares a lot. Liam doesn’t tell Zayn anything, he just pulls Zayn in by the collar of his leather jacket and kisses him, open-mouthed and shit.

Liam wants to know Zayn like the pen marks and the drying white-out on his skin. Liam wants to wake up to a lump of Zayn curled into his side. Wants to make tea and sweeten it with Zayn’s laughter. Wants to get to know Zayn like the back of his hand, and his palm, and Microeconomics. Liam wants to know what honey tastes like on cinnamon. He’d like to find out. He’s alright, now, with Zayn looking at him like he’s holding the world on his shoulders.

He’s alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, again.


End file.
